Too Deep

SS19 is feeling generous, this afternoon. Therefore, she updates this story as requested.

There are no warnings on this chapter.

Chapter Two: Potions

By the time morning came, he had almost forgotten about the Occlumency lesson and the voice in his head. His own nightmares had bothered him, and he had not mentioned anything to Ron or Hermione. Indeed, he did not even think about the peculiar things he had noticed the night before until something happened after lunch.

That something was a Potions lesson.

Professor Snape was in a foul mood. Worse than usual. He glowered at the class when they arrived, slamming the door so it rattled on its hinges, voice sharp and acerbic. He set them a potion to concoct, waving his wand at the blackboard to reveal instructions.

"What's wrong with his hand?" Ron asked in a whisper.

Harry looked to see what he was referring to—although it was almost unmissable. The skin on Snape's right hand was bright red, shiny and raw. Harry almost winced—he could imagine how painful that would be.

"Potions' accident?" Hermione replied, eyes already on her ingredients.

Harry didn't answer—he was thinking. He remembered, when he was much younger, he had spilt a bucket of cleaning liquid on his hands. The liquid had hurt—and of course, he had received no sympathy—but because the mixture had been so dilute, no lasting damage had been caused. But. His skin had turned bright red, almost...

And last night. The smell of disinfectant in Snape's office.

He leaned over his desk, "When I was in my Occlumency lesson last night...Snape was acting really strange."

Ron snorted, "More than normal? Come on Harry, the guy isn't normal by any stretch of the imagination."

"No. He wasn't sarcastic or anything. He didn't shout at me for being late—"

"Why were you late?" Hermione asked.

"Homework." Harry answered—and she raised an eyebrow.

He stared at her for a moment. "Anyway. But when he was inside my head, I heard a voice. It wasn't mine—it was someone who was in trouble. It sounded like..."

"Potter!" Snape barked from the front of the classroom. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for talking."

Harry glared at Snape, who turned his back and continued to prowl.

"It sounded like him." Harry finished finally. Hermione frowned slightly. "You think it was his memory that you were hearing?" She sounded sceptical.

"Yes." Harry replied. "I know it sounds ridiculous...but, it's happened before. I saw into his childhood—"

"Potter." Snape had appeared from behind him, and made Harry jump. "Are you having temporary issues with your hearing? Ten more points from Gryffindor."

Harry flushed and lowered his head over his cauldron. He hated Snape.

But he couldn't get the voice out of his head.

"Please. Please—no—please don't!"

It was a sound that scared him. If that was Snape, and Harry did not doubt it...then he had been in pain.

Harry knew that Snape was a spy—not that he trusted him—but he seemed to be untouchable.

He threw the leaves into the potion carelessly—and there was an explosion followed by clouds of purple smoke.

"Failed again, Potter." Snape's voice floated to him over the snickers from the Slytherins and the coughing of the people around him.

As anger boiled in his stomach, he realised that he couldn't care any less about Snape. Let him be tortured. It was all the man deserved.

Harry was still stewing at dinner. Hermione looked up at him over the pages of her book. "Harry. Eat something."

"He just can't stand it, can he? He has to say...something..."

"He was in a bad mood today." Hermione pacified.

Ron stared at her incredulously, "Bloody hell, Hermione, he is always in a bad mood!"

"Yes, well, if what Harry is saying is true—maybe he has a reason to be in a bad mood?"

"Since when were you Snape's greatest defender?" Ron demanded.

"I'm not defending him. It's just—I can imagine that spying on You-Know-Who is not an easy task. Also. He's not in his chair."

Harry cast his eyes to the teacher's table. Hermione was right; Snape's chair was empty.

"I still think he's an idiot." Ron replied, stuffing the chicken on his fork into his mouth.

Harry continued to watch the long table at the other end of the hall. He saw Professor McGonagall sweep into the hall from the back entrance—and lean over to whisper something into Professor Dumbledore's ear.

Dumbledore nodded to whatever she was saying, and then she sat down. The Headmaster turned his head to stare at Snape's empty chair. He rested one hand on his beard and frowned.

Harry looked away, back to his soup. He wasn't hungry.

He waited for his friends to finish, and they stood to leave. He glanced back at the table one final time.

And Dumbledore was still watching Snape's chair, lost in thought. Harry couldn't describe it—but something icy hit the pit of his stomach. Why did Dumbledore look so...worried?